


Hel's Bells (or "every time a bell rings")

by lanyon



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BAMFs in love, M/M, Tahiti is a Magical Place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-04 19:00:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanyon/pseuds/lanyon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Will that work for your love?” asks Hela. “If I asked, would all this world weep for him?”</p><p>Clint’s heart hammers against his chest, painfully thumping and driving him to his knees. “No,” he whispers. “No.” He looks up at Hela. “No one has heard of him.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hel's Bells (or "every time a bell rings")

**Author's Note:**

  * For [immoral_crow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/immoral_crow/gifts).



> +huge huge thanks to **erin, sarah** and **dani** for being the most epic support and enablers.  
>  +this story is an unholy mish-mash of canons, with the _avengers, agents of shield_ and a variety of cameos, including 616. hela, as represented here, is rather closer to her norse mythological origins than marvel.  
>  +i do hope you enjoy this, immoral_crow

Grant Ward is not unobservant. He’s a sniper. He’s a sniper in an organisation that has a proud tradition of snipers, from Bucky Barnes in the 1940s to Clint Barton in the here and now. The thing is, and he’s told May this, snipers don’t emit spores. They can’t identify each other by scent or whatever. And that’s why he doesn’t recognise Hawkeye in the rec room at the New York HQ. 

He likes to think he can recognise heroes, though. 

. 

“I’m not a therapist,” says the bartender, blankly unimpressed as she wipes a pint glass dry. 

“But,” says Clint, sighing heavily. “You have a kind face.”

Her eyebrows shoot up and then she’s looking at someone behind her. “Is this yours?” she asks, not unkindly, but maybe he’s overstated it.

“Only during working hours,” says Kate, sitting on the barstool next to his.

“You old enough to be in here, Katie-Kate?”

“You mature enough?” asks Kate. 

“You know,” says Clint. “You’re my best friend.”

She wrinkles up her nose. “That is so sad.” 

She doesn’t say, he doesn’t say, _I thought that was Coulson._

.

He doesn’t much like blue lights anymore. He rubs his chest and he’s pretty sure he’s not a robot. Not when his heart aches.

.

Clint Barton knows what a hero is. He does. Any orphan knows what a hero is and so what if he still gets a little nervous at the thought of talking to Iron Man? (It helps that it’s Tony Stark who does the talking.)

The dust has settled after the Battle of New York and there are some hard truths that he’s got to wrap his head around. Coulson’s missing (missing, not dead, not dead and Clint doesn’t miss the sympathetic expression on Steve Rogers’ face like he knows anything about missing in action except, oh). 

They’re saying that Clint Barton is a hero. Well, they’re saying that Hawkeye is a hero and that’s a different thing entirely. 

.

The first time they meet, Clint is filthy and he’s exhausted and he’s hungry. He’s been on the run from any number of criminals, as well as the FBI, the CIA, MI5, ETA and the IRA. No, he doesn’t know, either. His involvement in Basque separatism is negligible and the closest he’s ever been to Ireland is O’Neill’s on 30th. 

The most striking thing is the warmth in the suit’s eyes. Like. He’s been chasing Clint through eight States and, even when Clint made a break into Canada, the suit kept following. 

“I know heroes,” says the suit. He sticks out his hand. “My name is Phil Coulson.”

Clint is surprised enough to shake his hand. 

“I think you’ve got the wrong guy,” he says because the suit is smiling now.

“No,” he says, peaceably. “No, I’m pretty sure it’s you.”

.

There are ways to summon Norse gods, or Asgardians, and Clint’s not sure he’s brave enough to try. 

.

The Battle of New York is a memory of months past and Clint sees Coulson, in the distance. His heart does that thing; a wild flutter like a thousand caged butterflies just waiting to be pinned. Coulson’s not on his own. He’s going to see Hand which just proves that he hasn’t changed. He always was a glutton for punishment. 

“How do you reckon the early adoption programme is going for him?” he asks Natasha. No, he doesn’t know where she came from but he always knows when she’s here.

“Maybe it’s more his pace,” she says. She doesn’t mean to be cruel but maybe she’s right. 

“Coulson’s a good, uhm-”

“-team dad?”

Clint laughs and rubs the back of his neck. “Teacher, I was gonna say.”

 _Hero_ , he was gonna say.

.

He could talk to Selvig because Selvig knows what it’s like. 

He doesn’t know how the conversation would go, though. 

How-

How was it for you?

.

Coulson sees Clint, in the distance. He waves a hand in greeting, across the wide open foyer, and he knows better than to assume, ever, that Clint doesn’t see. 

Coulson sees the curve of Clint’s cheek as he turns away.

He misses him, like a dart of pain, and it’s another strike against his robot heart.

.

At the start, Clint is passed from handler to handler, and he is not difficult to work with, as such, but he has no discipline. 

He also, they say, has a bit of a thing for Agent Coulson and it takes all sorts. 

.

“Is it true?” asks Skye, throwing herself down on the couch. 

“Yes,” says Ward. “Everything. Especially the bit about the abominable snowman.”

“Yeah, shut up,” says Skye. “Is it true about Hawkeye? That you met him and had no idea it was him.”

Ward turns a page of his magazine with the utmost dignity. “It’s called a secret identity for a reason.”

“Yes,” says Coulson, dryly, and they hadn’t even known he was there. “And Clint Barton is as unsubtle as they come.”

The thing is, Coulson looks as surprised as the rest of them.

.

Their first Christmas is in Moscow. It’s not ideal but Coulson doesn’t have any living family and Clint doesn’t have any family and Christmas dinner consists of _blini_ from a street vendor and somehow Coulson manages to eat it neatly while Clint spills molten cheese everywhere. 

“You’ve got a little-” says Coulson, gesturing to encompass Clint’s whole face. 

Clint screws up his face. “Permission to go to McDonald’s for our next meal, sir?”

“вот что я люблю,” says Coulson, with a straight face.

“God bless you,” says Clint and now they’re smiling at each other in a snowy market near the university. “I want a Cossack hat.” 

“Maybe if you’re good,” says Coulson. “Santa will come.” 

Clint smiles brilliantly. “Think he’ll know where I am, sir?”

“I can assure you, Agent Barton, that you are not as good a covert operative as you think you are.”

“I fucking am,” says Clint and he takes a bit of blini and promptly burns his tongue.

.

There are tales that say, in the places the northern lights flicker and flame, the borders between the worlds are at their thinnest. Clint’s not sure that can be true but Selvig’s still crazy and Dr Foster isn’t contactable. 

Clint applies for leave from SHIELD and it’s granted without any difficulty. He tells no one where he is going. He has a backpack and a collapsible bow. He stops in Murmansk. He eats blini that bleed hot cheese over his gloved fingers. He goes to Lake Lovozero, where the northern lights flicker and flame.

.

Ward’s at the Triskelion, having been summoned by the powers that be. Coulson knows he’s going there because Coulson knows everything. He flashes Ward a smile. “If you need an extraction-”

“I’ll let you know.” Ward doesn’t think either of them is joking.

He meets Agent Morse and he learns about some AIM device that needs to be recovered. He doesn’t know why he’s the point guy here or why SHIELD can’t use some other maverick agent, or whatever the word of the week is (not porcupine). 

He doesn’t know, even when Clint Barton falls into step with him. “How’s Coulson?” he asks. 

Ward falls over. He doesn’t mean to. 

“You know-”

“Coulson?” asks Clint, hauling Ward upright. “Sure. We go way back.”

Ward looks around, furtively. “No, that he’s-”

“Still collecting Captain America memorabilia?” 

“ _No._ You are really annoying. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Coulson, actually,” says Clint. 

It would be childish to clamp his hand over Barton’s mouth to keep him from interrupting and Ward is above that. He’s, like, a good inch above that. 

“How do you know that he’s alive?” 

Barton smiles, a little sadly. “I brought him back.”

Wow, so. Not what Ward was expecting to hear.

“I guess it would be classified but you’re what? Level Seven?”

“Yeah, until I get bumped back down again for some arbitrary reason,” says Ward.

.

The Northern Lights are a dim glow when Clint says the words. They grow in intensity and they are blinding, building higher and higher until they almost split the sky (or maybe they do).

“You _summon_ me?” 

She doesn’t look a thing like her dad. 

. 

Coulson remembers waking up on a massage table, by a sandy beach. It’s a- It’s a- 

He’d never been to Tahiti before. 

He pours himself a glass of a passable bourbon and the Bus barely shudders because May has gentle hands, when she needs to be gentle. There’s a Captain America bobblehead on his desk. He didn’t put it there and its head is nodding up and down with fervent agreement. 

He sits down. 

“Clint,” he says, softly.

.

“Who dares summon me?” 

Clint’s the only person in a five mile radius but he guess that would be kind of rude to point out. “Uh,” he says. “Me. Clinton Francis Barton.”

“Why?” she asks. “Why do you presume to summon Hela of the Dead?”

“You - you’ve got someone I love,” says Clint which, okay, is the truth but not how he meant to say it. “Someone murdered by your father.”

“That hardly narrows it down,” she says and she is still more light than person. “My father is-”

“Yes,” says Clint. He closes his eyes and feels her hands on his face. 

“He has touched you,” she says. 

_And not in the good way,_ Clint wants to add. 

“I am subject to no one,” she says. “I obey no one’s rules but my own and yet-” She draws herself up to her full height and her full height is stratospheres and so far beyond human comprehension that Clint feels smaller than an ant, smaller than a single molecule and he is so afraid. 

“He did you wrong,” says Hela and her voice is like thunder and, half-hysterical, Clint wonders if Thor knows. 

“Have you heard of Balder?” she asks and now she is normal woman-sized, surprisingly petite and her hands are on Clint’s face again. “He was killed by Loki’s devices and I would have released him if everyone had mourned his passing. Every person and God, every animal and plant; everyone mourned for Balder but for one-”

“Loki-,” says Clint. 

“Disguised as a giantess, but yes,” says Hela. “He did not mourn the loss of Odin’s son and so Baldr remains in my realm.” 

“Sucks,” says Clint, quietly. He is cold.

“Will that work for your love?” asks Hela. “If I asked, would all this world weep for him?”

Clint’s heart hammers against his chest, painfully thumping and driving him to his knees. “No,” he whispers. “No.” He looks up at Hela. “No one has heard of him.” 

Everyone walks past Coulson, without a second glance. Even Clint has walked past him, in another life. 

“You are not the first to beg for this man’s life,” says Hela. “He is known.”

Clint blinks up at her and breathes out. “Thor.”

.

“You were supposed to forget me,” says Clint. He steps out from behind the door. “That was the deal.”

“Tahiti?”

“I don’t know.” Clint shrugs. “I said it as a joke. I said, ‘Tell him he was in Tahiti.’ We always meant to go there, right?”

“The one place that had no associations for either of us,” says Coulson. 

“Yeah.” Clint tries to smile. “Guess I fucked that one up, huh?”

Coulson stands up and pours another drink. “Want one?”

Clint nods. “You were supposed to forget.”

“You?” asks Coulson. He hands Clint a glass, their fingers barely trembling. “Oh, Barton. What power on this earth would make me forget you?”

He says it so matter-of-factly that Clint almost forgets to draw breath. “It wasn’t this earth’s power,” says Clint.

Coulson shrugs. “Neither is- Well. You know.” 

Clint sips his drink. It burns on the way down, the way so few things have burned since Loki.

.

Their second Christmas is in Portland. It’s civilised and Phil’s mother is old but fiercely house-proud and Clint has never eaten so much in his life. 

“Your mom totally likes me better than you,” he says to Coulson, after Mrs Coulson has gone to bed.

“Keep telling yourself that,” says Coulson and he’s smiling and he’s gentle and he looks so normal, in a t-shirt and jeans. “Happy Christmas, Clint.” 

.

When Clint wakes up on the side of Lake Lovozero, he is warmer than he should be. His cellphone vibrates in his pocket. 

“‘lo?”

“Barton,” says Fury. “What have you done?”

.

“Do you remember?” asks Coulson, as though he should be the one who’s asking. 

“Yes,” says Clint, opening his eyes. 

Coulson’s hands are on his face. His expression is open and fearless. 

“Come back,” says Clint, and he knows he sounds a little pathetic.

“I can’t,” says Coulson. “Not yet. I’ve got a good thing going here.”

“ _We_ had a good thing going,” says Clint. 

“We still do,” says Coulson and he kisses Clint. “I’ll be home for Christmas.” 

“Remember Portland?” asks Clint.

“Of course,” says Coulson. “And Albany. And Santa Cruz. And Dubrovnik.” 

.

“I’m not sure it was just me,” says Clint. “I mean. Thor-” 

“Made a deal with Hela that was entirely contingent on one of ours being stubborn enough to summon a fully-fledged Asgardian _Death _Queen to get Cheese back.” Fury rubs his temples. “Good work, Barton.”__

__“He-” Clint swallows. “He won’t remember me. Not really.”_ _

__“I don’t know,” says Fury. “He’s one stubborn bastard.”_ _

__._ _

__“I’m not sure I believe,” whispers Clint. He’s standing at the back of St Basil’s and it’s their first Christmas and Coulson has tried to explain the difference between Russian Orthodox practises and those in the west._ _

__“You believe in something,” whispers Coulson, squinting up at the ceiling._ _

___You_ , Clint almost says. _ _

__His fingers find Coulson’s sleeve nonetheless, snagging it briefly._ _

__._ _

__“Why’s Robin of Locksley so chipper?” asks Stark on Christmas Eve. “He does know about Santa, right?”_ _

__Clint tears his gaze away from the window of the penthouse of Stark Tower._ _

__“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I know. Nothing wrong with having a little faith, though.”_ _


End file.
